


Cycles

by TOWTSLeopardPrincess



Series: Eagles Fly [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Insanity, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 18:52:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TOWTSLeopardPrincess/pseuds/TOWTSLeopardPrincess
Summary: Check again. You just know you missed something.





	Cycles

**Author's Note:**

> You're sure your chair isn't parallel to the table. You're sure some speck of dirt has disfigured your exquisite arrangements. You're sure you've forgotten something vitally important, even though you made sure you remembered it five minutes ago.
> 
> But at the same time, you're not sure of anything at all.

_Tick, tock._

 

Heavy eyelids open to paint flaking off the ceiling

And the mellifluous voice of your favorite artist singing your alarm.

The words wash over you like waves

Lapping at the starlit shore as a lonely seagull calls out to a mate that will never again come home.

 

_Tick, tock._

 

The song ends.

 

_Tick, tock._

 

The chair is rigid beneath you as you cautiously shift it until it is parallel with the edge of the dining table.

Your mother dishes breakfast out onto your pristine plate,

Humming a lively tune as she swoops back into the kitchen.

You rise, careful not to jostle your chair, and follow.

You nudge the stray toothpick into a perpendicular arrangement with its kinsfolk,

Check that she's turned the stove off,

Open the cupboard to orderly rows of mugs and wine glasses,

Glance at the stove,

Close the cupboard, and immediately peek inside to see if the action has budged anything out of place,

Look once more.

The stove is off.

The cups are still in their formation, and so are the toothpicks, cutlery, dishes, cleaning utensils.

The stove is-

Hands on your shoulders.

Pressure. You're being pulled away.

Straining forward, catching a glimpse as your mother herds you back into the dining room.

You inch into your seat. Can't move the chair. Mustn't move the chair.

Under a watchful gaze, you eat.

 

_Tick, tock._

 

She's in the kitchen. She must have been touching the cabinets,

The toothpick battalion,

Searching for something in the formerly tidy shelves.

Messed with your methodical configuration of the kitchen somehow.

The scent of fried rice wafts through the air and into your nose, from two rooms away.

The door is open from when you last stole a look at how perfectly parallel the table and your chair were.

Fried rice.

Stove.

She's been using the stove.

Your heart seizes.

She serves the noontime meal with gusto, turning a delighted smile at you

But you're hastening past her, rounding the corner with a pounding pulse roaring in your ears

And the stove is still off.

Everything is in order.

You step out.

Step in.

Something must have gone wrong with your memory,

Your head,

Because you vaguely remember seeing the temperature of the stove at zero, where your mother left it,

But it's on now, you just know it,

So you inspect it again,

And it remains blissfully off.

You settle in your chair, the chair that is absolutely parallel to the dining table.

You take a bite.

She's no longer staring.

Another bite,

And suddenly,

The room is filled with the choking smell of smoke and

Orange flames are licking at the doorway to the kitchen and

It must have been the stove, it was on, and you missed it.

You leap out of your seat,

Intending to turn the culprit off once and for all,

But your chair shifts from its position with the scraping sound of wood against tile,

And your vision tunnels.

It isn't parallel with the table.

It's not parallel.

Not parallel.

You reach out, scoot it back into place,

Eyes narrowed in concentration as you assess the approximate angles until it is, at last,

Impeccably parallel.

Stove.

You dive for the kitchen, sure you will find your toothpicks on fire

And the stove consumed by an inferno,

But all is still,

And not one breeze has displaced a mote of dust,

And the stove is mercifully off.

You open the cupboard.

Close it.

Open.

Close.

Chair and table are parallel.

Toothpicks, mugs, forks and knives, all good.

Stove is off.

You finish your lunch.

 

_Tick, tock._

 

The blankets are comforting as they encase your body.

Sleep threatens to overwhelm you,

And you give in to the urge,

Eyes sliding halfway shut when

It strikes you like a lightning bolt.

The stove, surely it is on, planning to annihilate the building once its inhabitants are deep in slumber,

And you nearly succumbed to the urge to doze off,

Nearly sealed your own fiery fate.

You creep out of the bedroom and into the kitchen,

Vigilant, attentive, silent so as to not wake your mother.

Perchance the dastardly stove is conspiring with the toaster and microwave this instant.

You burst aggressively into the kitchen, prepared for an image of the kitchen appliances gathered in a council of war,

The stove on, ready to burst into sinister flames at a moment’s notice,

Marking your home as your tomb,

Disturbing your beautiful, fragile cup-and-toothpick armies.

Wildly, your gaze sweeps the room,

And the brigades persist in being extraordinarily undisturbed.

Your eyes alight on the stove finally.

You can already see the blaze that will ignite your apartment,

Incinerate all that stands in its raging path

As the stove, the mastermind behind it all cackles madly, scorning your incompetence at verifying that one wretched device is off,

As your lovely mother is swallowed by the miniature conflagration.

You blink the vision away.

You stand in an empty kitchen, light, cool wind from the air conditioning rustling your hair.

The toothpicks stand tall. The cups are flawlessly aligned. The stove is motionless.

You’re alone.

You leave, but the kitchen beckons you.

Over your shoulder, you look back. The tiled floor is cold under your bare feet.

 

_Tick, tock._

 

Sunlight streams through your curtains and into your weary eyes as the tide comes in. Illuminated by the Milky Way, your seagull flies out over the coastline in search of its lover, accompanied by the fluctuating melody of your morning tune.

The stove is off.


End file.
